


The Same

by boulderuphill



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: (and not in the sexy way :( ), Angst, Choking, M/M, Past Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:00:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22131436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boulderuphill/pseuds/boulderuphill
Summary: “Some things never change,” Jean says in an english that still sounds like french. “Always suffering in silence. Do you know what they called you when you left? Disloyal.” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “It is funny, how they do not know you like I do.”
Relationships: Kevin Day/Jean Moreau
Comments: 14
Kudos: 179





	The Same

**Author's Note:**

> remember when the person kevin depended on most for protection and support suddenly tried to choked the life out of him?? well i do!! and im sure there are a million fics on this topic so just add this one to the pile i guess (also this probably contradicts the canon timeline but shh just let it happen)

Kevin isn’t fourteen anymore, but it’s easy to forget that when his neck is aching, and the ghost of Riko still sits atop his chest. 

_You’re making me do this,_ Riko hisses with his split tongue flickering like two snakes tangled together. His fingers stretch around and around Kevin’s throat until they swallow his entire body, like a cocoon of flesh. _Show me how sorry you are._

There is no air between the cracks of Riko’s fingers, only smoke fills Kevin’s mouth until he’s coughing so violently between the breaths that he wakes up with a strangled shout. 

With the lights turned off, the eggshell white of the dorm bedroom doesn’t look so different from the black walls and ceiling of the Nest. Even Andrew’s bed on the other side of the room is menacing, a reminder that while a lot has changed, a lot has also remained the same. 

He presses his hand against his cheek, leaving his palm wet and warm, and it might be the very familiarity of that sensation that guides it and presses it flat against the wall. 

He scratches the wallpaper, but it does not produce the sound he expects. These walls are not as hollow as the ones in the Nest, where something as thin as paper was the only thing separating Jean’s bed from his. So perhaps he should not be disappointed when there is no quiet tapping on the other side of it, no gentle reminder that he is not alone.

The brief moment before his foot touches the floor, he expects it to be naked wood rather than warm carpet. When it isn’t, he expects relief. 

His eyes grow used to the sharp bathroom light in increments, but even the gradual reveal of his reflection and the bruises that run like a ribbon around his neck makes him flinch. They’re still irregular in colour and shape, with two distinct patches of dark purple right above his collar, remnants of where Andrew’s fingers dug into his skin. Dull pain blossoms from where he touches it, reaching towards his head and chest like Andrew reached for him at the prospect of losing Neil. It’s nostalgic, this ritual of inspecting it and assessing the damage. 

“You didn’t deserve that.” Andrew’s voice startles him, and their eyes meet in the mirror. When he’s framed by the doorway, Andrew looks firm, like his small size actually makes him stronger. 

“It’s nothing.” The bruises are shallow, easy to hide with a turtleneck or a scarf, and they don’t affect his playing abilities. In a way he’s grateful, it’s so easy to imagine worse ways in which Andrew could have hurt him.

“Kevin Day.” Andrew shakes his head, but he’s smiling. “You might actually be the most fucked up one of us all.”

That should be the end of it, but it is not the inevitability of going through the bedroom to the Nest that seems to lock Kevin into place; it is the fear of passing Andrew, and putting himself within his reach. Andrew watches him, narrow eyes focused just below Kevin’s own.

“I didn’t break my promise,” he says. “I’ll still protect you.”

“But you would do it again.” And who would be there to pull him off this time? 

“Only if you made me.” It’s a joke, as close to a joke as Andrew ever gets, but the world distorts around them all the same. As if Kevin is at the bottom of a pool, bathroom light breaking against the water surface and Andrew’s figure like a long shadow by its edge. Kevin’s breath hitches, and the panic blends with pain when he reaches for his throat to make sure it is still whole. 

“Kevin?” Andrew’s voice. “Kevin?!” Riko’s voice. Indistinguishable words in both of their voices, like a terrifying swirl that surrounds him and pulls him further down.

“Don’t,” he says when Andrew reaches into the depth for him, a croaking and inhuman sound as he brings his left arm up to shield himself.

Beneath it he sees Andrew, standing frozen with his arm still stretched towards Kevin. A shadow is draped over his face, deepening his features and giving his skin a green tint, and for a moment they remain just like that; a perfect snapshot of old wounds being torn open after a year of attempting to nurse them. 

Andrew is the one to step away. He turns without a word and seconds later the door to the hallway slams shut, leaving a silence that is is thick and heavy, forcing its way onto Kevin until there is no room left for him.

If he goes to bed now the shadow on the opposite side of the bedroom will be back, but there will never be any tapping on the other side of the wall. So instead he follows, numb legs somehow carrying him out of the dorms and into the cold night, where Andrew’s car is waiting. He gets in the backseat, and when he searches for eye contact with Andrew in the rearview mirror, he does not find it.

“Go get Neil, he’ll want to join,” Andrew says, arms resting on the wheel while he plays with an unlit cigarette, but Kevin does not need the court right now. 

“I want to see Jean.” 

Something flickers across Andrew’s face, and the cigarette drops between the dashboard and his seat. It’s so brief, perhaps Kevin imagined it all together. 

“It’s four AM,” Andrew says, but he starts the engine anyway and when they’re on the driveway in front of Abby’s house he leaves it running as Kevin gets out. 

It’s strange seeing him drive off, and Kevin can’t help but think of all the hours Andrew has spent waiting for him at the court. 

When the dark swallows the last of the taillights, he lets himself into Abby’s house and runs his hand along the hallway as his eyes adjust to the darkness. In the Nest he could find his way to Jean blind, and now is not any different.

The bedroom itself is bathing in pale moonlight, spilling through the window and onto the floor. When Kevin closes the door, the silhouette on the bed startles. With a choked cry, Jean sits up, his eyes big like two shards of porcelain.

“C’est moi,” Kevin says in a french that’s suddenly unfamiliar, like something out of a dream.

“Kevin?” Jean sinks into the bed, relief pushing his shoulders down as his head falls back. “Why are you here?” He sighs, and the familiarity of it sends Kevin stumbling forward, his body so heavy that when he reaches the bed that he falls on his knees beside it. 

“I don’t know,” Kevin says into the covers, breathing in the familiar scent of apples that immersed them both during stolen moments in the Nest. He squeezes Jean’s hand, short and fumbling, and his body aches with the memories of reuniting just like this after yet another night of Riko’s abuse. 

Warmth sprouts from his hand and along his arm when Jean returns the gesture. Even though the bed is small, when Jean shuffles closer to the wall and pushes the covers further down, he creates just enough room for Kevin to crawl down next to him. 

“They don’t understand,” Kevin says, and Jean makes a sound that reminds him of a laugh.

“How could they?” he says, and Kevin falls asleep to the rhythm of his breaths. 

*

The next morning, the first thing Kevin sees is Jean’s neck and the wild strands of hair that never lie quite flat. They tickle his nose and the way he scrunches it is such a small shift, a motion miniscule enough that he barely feels it himself, but is somehow enough to alert Jean that he is awake. The mattress dips when Jean turns onto his back, his already sharp profile outlined by the shadows cast by the morning sun, and with heavy eyelids he reaches towards Kevin.

“Riko?” he says, and the sheer sound of the name makes Kevin tense, every inch of him suddenly on edge. “No, no, shh-” Jean motions with his hand, a lazy gesture that doesn’t make any sense until his fingertips brush against Kevin’s neck and pain blossoms from it.

When Kevin shakes his head Jean’s hand follows, like they are attached to one another, and Jean’s brow furrows. “The Master?” It is little more than a whisper and his hand floats like something dead in the air, not resuming its small motion until Kevin shakes his head again. “Then who?” 

“It doesn’t matter,” Kevin says, and Jeans smiles. His hand is large, calloused by a lifetime of labour and abuse, but its touch is soft like the golden rays across his face.

“Some things never change,” Jean says in an english that still sounds like french. “Always suffering in silence. Do you know what they called you when you left? Disloyal.” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “It is funny, how they do not know you like I do.” 

Kevin guides Jean’s hand further up until he can press his lips against its palm. 

“They’ll say the same about you,” he mumbles into the worn skin, breathing in some of the courage that saved his life in the Nest time and time again. “I left you with him,” he says, because if he does not say it now, it will dig itself every corner of his being and remain with him for the rest of his life. “I knew that he would hurt you, and I left anyway.”

Jean’s fingers twitch in something that could be surprise or anger, and any moment now they are going to latch onto the bruises around Kevin’s neck in the long overdue punishment for abandoning him and sentencing him to a fate worse than death.

But the pain does not come, and Kevin presses harder against Jean’s palm until it’s the only thing the sees, grasping at it and lacing their fingers together until they are one large knot, impossible to tell where one of them ends and the other begins. 

“It was the same,” Jean says with something that resembles a shrug. “He was angry, but it was the same.” The covers are still pulled up high, but Kevin can imagine the scars and bruises beneath them in such detail it might just be another memory. Red and purple in large patches across Jean’s torso, the same colour as his own throat.

“It all is, I think,” he says, and there is no questioning quirk of Jean’s brow or tentative squeeze of reassurance. Just a tired exhale that could belong to either one of them as they move a little closer.

**Author's Note:**

> the world needs more kevjean content :( i would die for them so this is entirely self indulgent, please read my kandrew fics if u want something a bit more idk quality


End file.
